After Midnight
by unhappytidings
Summary: Sometimes things happen. Sometimes horrible things happen that can't be explained, but that isn't something that Sherlock truly believes. An 'accident' sends Mrs. Watson to the grave and John holding the baby. While Sherlock helps the good doctor cope, he's solving a case that couldn't be closer to home.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own no copyrights or shares in BBC or Sherlock, nor do I claim to.

AN: So, I finally got round to fixing the formatting on this chapter. My tablet kept adding script and such when there was not meant to be. Anyway, I hope this will be much easier to read. I'm pretty much testing my voice of Sherlock. Please comment and let me know how he sounds and what you think of the first chapter in general.

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After Midnight

"It was a frigid February evening, just as Watson was sure he would never get the smell of rotting pig out of his nostrils, that his cellular went abuzz. Sherlock was arm deep in the festering corpse of a common swine, looking for the evidence to wrap up a case. Just as his friend, the lunatic who thought it was absolutely wonderful to get elbow deep into a carcass couldn't get any more loony, he shoots a depressed-oh-better-answer-that-because-I'm-about-to-be-smart look at him. Watson merely rolled his eyes and turned his back from the kitchen counter, removing his protective goggles as he walked. The sickening crack of bone, was something that probably should have made the Doctor uneasy, but having done so many strange things with the Detective, led him to places much stranger than this. Watson caught the phone on its' last ring, the name Mary Watson, disappearing to black screen as he hurriedly held it up to his ear.

"Listen Mary, I'm sorry I'm…" John offered, certain he was much past the hour they had decided upon for dinner. But, the woman on the other end was not Mary. John turned his eyes back toward Sherlock, as he tried to comprehend what exactly the nurse was saying. The look of shock overtook his face. Sherlock was already removing the gloves that looked more like wading boots, a gold necklace and shoelaces were laid aside on the bloodied table. John was silent as he listened to the instructions, the woman was putting forth. Sherlock washed up, covered the hog with a tarp, and put his coat on. And perhaps it was the shock on John's face that had Sherlock fetching his friend's coat as well. Finally, John replied with a nervous, yet practiced, "Do not make any decisions until I get there, in twenty." He hung up the phone, slid it in his pocket.

Sherlock gathered from the conversation that something was wrong with Mary. A problem with the pregnancy possibly. Decision. Life and death decision. The necessity to ask him what he will do was nagging at him. But, it looked as if his friend hadn't the slightest idea how to breathe at the moment. It would be up to him to get John to the hospital. "I'll call a cab." He said, pulling out his own phone as he eyed John, putting on his scarf. "She is at…" John started.

"St. Thomas'. I'm aware. We'll get there John." He offered, before talking to the cab dispatcher. The cab made it three minutes and forty-five seconds. All the while, John lost more and more color to his face. He did not speak, Sherlock was certain it was more to keep his stomach from dispelling its' contents rather than avoiding conversation with Sherlock on the situation. At this point there were a few options.

Mary had been in some sort of accident, resulting in her delivering early. That was really the most likely of cases. While there were more subjective ideas vying for second place on the plausibility scale. Perhaps she had gone into early labor on her own. Or there was always the possibility of miscarriage in the late term. As a woman who smoked before she was pregnant, there was a likelihood that she might crave things that contain nicotine. Things that might hurt an unborn baby. Things like tomatoes, potatoes, tea, eggplant, and cauliflower all contained trace amounts of nicotine. Still mashed potatoes were unlikely to make Mary miscarry in such late term. It was not long before they had reached St. Thomas.

Sherlock followed John as he broke into a jog to get to the front desk, interrupting a casual conversation between nurses, to ask where Mary Watson was and if she was awake. Sherlock knew at that very moment, what had become of Mrs. Watson. And he knew he could not stop John from running down the hall as the nurse called for the Doctor on the floor. John had seen the room number on the report.

The other nurse, a withered blonde that reeked of cat litter slipped out of the way as Sherlock looked over at the first nurse, an Asian with high cheekbones and artificially colored green eyes. He put his hands in his coat pocket, watching as Watson disappeared from sight. "And the child?" Green eyes looked up at him sorrowfully, as she tried to tug on her wrinkled scrubs. Judging on wrinkled her white and blue uniform as it was, she had had given a great deal of bad news today.

"She is underweight as can be expected, but otherwise the Doctor deemed her healthy." Sherlock nodded dutifully and followed after Watson and into the room he had disappeared in. Dr. Nguyen was there with four others, two of which were holding back John, who was sobbing loudly and screaming. He screamed that he was a doctor. Screamed that she _could_ be saved. Sherlock found himself looking at Mary now too. Her eyes closed, dried blood around her nose and sprinkled on the white sheets. Foul play certainly.

As John's tone reached lower depths and sunk to the floor, Dr. Nguyen approached Sherlock. "She was hit by a car on her way from fetching groceries. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Mary fought hard. She stayed with us until we got to the hospital, but fell into a coma. We couldn't stabilize her fast enough, she had too much internal bleeding." The Doctor explained in his thick Irish accent, shifting uncomfortably away from John who had amassed into a disjointed heap.

There wasn't much time. Mary needed an autopsy, more specifically she needed to be examined by Molly. But, even Sherlock who had the emotional range of teaspoon knew that John needed to be cared for. His daughter needed to be cared for. Quickly he texted Molly. Explained the matter in as few words as possible, and then told Dr. Nguyen that the body would be held here until an autopsy could be performed.

Sherlock watched carefully as the Doctor, who was frankly suspect now as far as he was concerned tried to conclude that an autopsy wouldn't be needed. John gathered himself then, willing himself to stand and clear his throat. "An autopsy?" He looked over at Sherlock, blue eyes wet and hurt. "Sherlock…is it?" Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow as the Doctor now continued to disapprove.

"Sherlock merely pulled out his phone and took a picture of the room, the Doctor and medical staff within them, and texted Lestrade. Not two minutes later, as Sherlock dragged John down the hall, the death of Mary Watson had become an investigation with Lestrade sending a team along.

"John, we will have to do what is necessary to find out what happened to Mary, but she wouldn't find it necessary that you continue crying so profusely. We have little time to act. _You_ have little time to act." The good Doctor looked stricken, angry, possibly more tired than he'd ever seen him, as Sherlock led him to the maternity ward. "What do you mean?" He sniffled, trying to fight against the urge to lean against the wall for just a little bit to collect himself."John…" He started, opening the door to the room with an attentive staff walking down the aisles of eight sleeping babies. "It's time to meet Baby Watson. You're a father."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not an affiliate of BBC or Sherlock, nor do I own or profit off of the work of fiction made for fans.

AN: So, after editing my previous chapter, it got me into the mood to actually write something else for this story. This chapter is going to be pretty gloomy, especially from the Watson's standpoint, but hopefully there will be little rays of sunlight here or there. Let me know what you think. Read and review.

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It felt like months since Mary's death, though it had been a mere forty-eight hours since his wife had…

Today, the nurse with the fake green lenses told John that he could take his baby girl home. Their baby girl. He didn't like the English language anymore. He, she, their, his… There were so many moments this morning when the unsuspecting intern was warning him of the something the baby's mum ought to watch out for, only to watch the uncomfortable kid clear his throat and change his pronouns to him and his. Even the English language reminded John of Mary's absence. Of his loss; of his daughter's loss.

It was a tremendous moment to place Baby Leila into her little pram. But, it felt like every positive moment, every first he would have with his beautiful daughter would be a moment stolen from his wife. She wanted to be here. She would have loved to see Leila wrap her fingers around John's pinky. Mary would have rolled her eyes when he cried the first time he held her. She was a perfect little angel. And he hated that all he wanted to do was cry. He didn't want to carry on. Survivor's guilt? He had been there before. But, John had never felt it so acutely then the first moment the nurse placed the baby in his arms. He felt like he was stealing her from his wife's hands.

Leila's father reached down and tucked in the white waffle blanket around her, nestling it close to her, in her sleeping state. He wondered if there would ever be a time that he could look at his daughter and not think of Mary. But, he knew better. He knew that even if he couldn't think past it now, his wife would never forgive him for being like this around their daughter. He could be depressed now, but someday he'd have to move on. Just then, he felt the buzz of a text in his jacket pocket. He knew before he even looked at his screen that it would be Sherlock. And as if he had taken too long to answer the first text, another immediately followed it.

And then as if Sherlock had been standing right behind him making huffy noises, he was receiving a phone call right there in front of Leila's pram in the middle of the outpatient offices. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous. John moves to press 'ignore', but as the mobile buzzes, he can't help but wonder if this is the time of all of the times he's taken calls that Sherlock truly needs him. Longsufferingly he answers the call in his most exasperated tone, "Wot?!"

There is a distinct rustling in the background, he's not quite sure where to place it. Then Sherlock's matter-of-fact tone comes alive in his ear. "John? You aren't busy? Of course, you're busy. New father and all. Bring Baby Watson with you. Before you hang up on me, I need your help. We were right. Foul play. Molly says she was poisoned. The blunt trauma happened after she was comatose. Meet me at the address I texted you. Oh, and bring an extra blanket for Leila. It's nippy. Can't have the newest Watson falling ill now. What kind of godfather would I be?" Click.

It was as simple as that and he was being roped into an investigation. John clicks through his missed messages and pulls up the apparent chilly place in GPS. It's four blocks away from the hospital. He makes the little pink hat that Leila has on, dips below her ears, to keep her warm. John nods at the green eyed nurse and heads out into the cool evening. It's around sunset when he reaches the place, which happens to be an empty dirt lot, save for a small garden at the far end. That is where he spots Sherlock laying on his side with a bright light emitted from his mobile staring at a tomato plant. The Doctor is fairly certain at this point, that he has truly lost his friend to madness or perhaps his mind palace, whichever enveloped him first.

Still the new father found little trouble approaching upon his friend, even with the pram guiding the way. Even after John parked his daughter's pram and looked her over once more, Sherlock was still silent. But, soon it was far from silent.

"What was Mary's favorite vegetable?" He asked, like a normal person commented upon the passing hour. John should have been used to such strange questions by now, and yet, he was still entirely at a loss.

"Don't worry, I'll answer for you. When you made up your dinner menu for your wedding, Mary and you had a bit of a row about which vegetable should be served. You wanted potatoes to accompany the tri-tip, but Mary, perhaps with her maternal cravings, wished to comment that her favorite side was asparagus, but only if it had tomatoes. Tomatoes were her favorite vegetable." John went to open his mouth to correct him, as even children knew that tomatoes were more fruit than vegetable.

"Yes, I am aware that I asked you which 'vegetable', but as Mary liked to believe it was a 'vegetable' I'll just let that slide. Anyway, do you know what fruit or vegetable has trace amounts of arsenic in them? As well as trace amounts of nicotine. Bingo, John you've got it. Tomatoes!" He popped up from off the ground, approaching the pram, and lowering his tone as if he hadn't been shouting all along.

"There are only three places in this district that has home-grown tomatoes." Sherlock says confidently. And as always, John finds himself asking the question before he can really stop it.

"What stops a person from popping by the market and not buying a tomato?" Sherlock had the good nature to seem surprised that he had asked such a question. John idly rocked the pram as his daughter slept, trying very hard not to over think this moment. Not to think about which death tomatoes may have caused.

"Ah John, there is absolutely nothing to stop one from buying a tomato, but growing a tomato without the hint of pesticides. That's a little more unique. And due to Molly's extra long toxicology report, there was no trace at all of added pesticides. In order to concoct an experiment, to see exactly which tomato is the culprit, well have to cross-examine each of the specimens."

John felt his eyes narrowing. What was he implying? As Sherlock crossed his arms, he knew _exactly_ what he was implying. John caught himself, staring at how dusty Sherlock's white shirt had gotten, after lying down in a field; how the dust smudged his chin. Had his chin always been so sharp?

"Come along John, we've some tomatoes to steal." Sherlock took over pushing the pram, allowing John to follow.

"_Take him out. You know, run him._" Sherlock was fairly sure Mary was up there being proud right now. The sooner John stopped dwelling; the sooner he could focus on the task at hand.


End file.
